


Unstring our bones

by Chimerari



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Brief suicidal ideation, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, PTSD, Recovery, implied internalized homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 19:46:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1577321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chimerari/pseuds/Chimerari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Come back in tears, O memory, hope, love of finished years<br/>Or: Bucky Barnes on the long and weary road towards recovery</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unstring our bones

"Not supposed to smoke, but—"

The white stick dangles between the middle and index finger, held away from the body so her dress won’t be ruined.

A dress that isn’t even there.

“—calms the conscience, no?”

A casual crossing and uncrossing of the legs. The smile she flashes him is one that’s well acquainted with sin. “Should I start from the beginning?”

She’s halfway through stubbing out the cigarette when she pauses, eyelids fluttering.

Steve breathes out.

There is a moment of absolute stillness. Then Bucky lets go of the cigarette, one finger at a time, and eases his leg down.

“…which one was it?”

He’s getting better at noticing the time lapse, which is a definite improvement. Steve is glad Bucky is looking away when he answers, “Tatiana.”

Bucky runs his tongue over his teeth, first one way, then the other. “Camel, fucking gross.”

“Yeah, yeah you always hated it.”

 

 

∞∞∞∞∞∞               

                    

 

James Buchanan Barnes shows up on a Tuesday.

A duffle bag slung over one shoulder, his grin lopsided. “Well, I _was_ looking for a beer.”

Easy as you please.

A voice that sounds suspiciously like Sam is yelling at Steve to get down, get down, get some goddamn cover. Figures, even the Sam in his head thinks he needs looking after.

The ghost on his porch lifts an eyebrow, _the hell are you waiting for_ , and Steve is stepping close. Stepping close and crushing 250 pounds of flesh and metal to his chest. SHIELD and the World Security Council can go screw themselves.

Bucky smells like dirt and travel, hair hanging in limp tendrils. His laughter booms thunder-bright in Steve’s chest.

 

 

Bucky sprawls on the couch like he’s on a mission to road-test the hell out of it. “Swell place you’ve got.”

Steve shrugs. He’s never considered the apartment his. Everything was picked out by some intern. He just brought in clothes and a couple CDs.

Coffee does nothing for him but he still likes the taste. Plus, it gives him something to do when he asks this.

“How’s the arm?”

“Good as new, good as new, buddy.” Bucky hollers back.

He glances up from channel surfing as Steve reappears, looking sheepish. The same expression he used to wear when some dame shot him down, right before the bravado came back ten-fold. “Spent years jumping out of Black Hawks. Then what did I do when I’m back stateside? Tripped on stairs.”

Steve doesn’t realize he’s dropped the mug until Bucky swears and dives for it.

 

 

Natasha shows up in ten. Alone, as she promised.

By then Steve has trashed the broken china, mopped up the spill, and rearranged everything in his kitchen. He would have gone for a run, too, but he doesn’t think it’s wise to leave an ex-assassin unsupervised.

A possibly delirious, definitely amnesiac ex-assassin, who’s currently singing in his shower. Christ.

The look she gives him when he answers the door might as well be a scream. If she was the type who screams.

“When did he get here?”

“Twenty minutes ago, give or take.”

Bucky comes out then, dripping water all over the place. Steve is saved from having to introduce them by Natasha bursting out in rapid-fire Russian.

Catching the towel in one hand, Bucky holds up the other. “Wow, slow down, lady. I don’t speak, whatever it was you just spoke.”

 

 

It’s disconcerting to watch Natasha turn on the charm— _call me Nat_ —tossing her hair and sneaking looks at Bucky’s biceps.

Bucky, predictably, preens under the attention.

Steve tries not to tense up whenever Natasha weaves in a pointed question. _Marine, huh?_ —flavored with a pretty blush— _where did you serve?_

All over, as it turns out: Iraq, Afghan, followed by two years with The Royal Marines.

“Just your regular freedom fighter.” Bucky grins wolfishly at his own jibe. “Shaping history as I go.”

If Steve hadn’t been paying attention, he’d have missed the twitch in her index finger. Natasha is never unarmed, and he knows something just pinged her radar.

Bucky doesn’t need much prompting to run his mouth off on his team: Morita, the RTO who does a surprisingly decent falsetto, in addition to setting up comms with nothing more than a tin can; Frenchie and Gabe drive everyone up the wall with their yammering; Falsworth, who would gut them all with a song in his heart for ‘a decent cuppa’, whatever that means. And this three-legged mutt follows Dum Dum everywhere, because he sneaks it scraps when no one is looking.

“Idiots, every single one of them. Would have died a dozen times if not for our CO.”

Brown liquid sloshes over the edge of the mug. Steve puts it down. From the other end of the couch, Natasha is mirroring Bucky’s pose. Everything, from her forward lean to the bare strip of skin at her wrists, says openness.

“What’s he like?”

“Some corn-fed, Captain America wannabe like you wouldn’t believe, real patriotic.” Bucky throws back the cold coffee like he’s downing shots, smacking his lips.

Steve barely has enough breath left to excuse himself and dash for the bathroom.

 

 

Natasha’s mouth is shaping words, whole sentences as her fingers fly over her phone: we need to bring him in.

His first instinct is to protest. Whatever he went through, it won’t compare to the things they have in store for the Winter Soldier. The person lounging in his living room, though? That’s Bucky: Bucky at his most relaxed since before HYDRA. And doesn’t he deserve that?

“Steve.” Natasha puts a hand on his forearm. He wishes it was one of her tactics. He wishes she called him Captain.

He leans his weight against the sink, head low. “To where?”

 

 

“Is that—” Bucky whistles. Steve doesn’t bang his head on the steering wheel. Should have known Stark’s definition of a holiday cabin is different from everyone else’s.

“Who’s coming again? Queen of England?”

“Some friends.” Steve coaxes the car down the dip. “You’ve met Nat. There’s Sam. You’ll like him.”

The old Bucky would get on with Sam like a house on fire. Steve would like to think this one will, too. “Clint might be dropping by, I’m not sure.”

He wonders briefly where Clint is, and if he’s got the news about SHIELD yet. Who’s he kidding? Natasha would have tracked him down anywhere.

“And how did you come by this place?”

“It’s not mine. A friend loaned it to us.”

“Uh huh.” Bucky gets that glint in his eye. “Is this _friend_ the type you see three times a week, and by seeing I mean—”

‘No!’ Steve winces at the mental image.

Bucky throws his head back, mouth so wide Steve can see his molars. “Just teasing ya. Never change, Steve. Never change.”

 

 

Natasha ushers them in, standing on tiptoes to press her cheek to Bucky’s. She’s in loose pants and a Smurfs shirt, hair looped into a bun.

Bucky bombarded him with questions the other day, as soon as Natasha was out of earshot. Steve denied every single one of Bucky’s increasingly unlikely suggestions, which just spurred Bucky on.

“Fine, we kissed, once.”

Bucky whooped, almost toppling over the couch.

Steve should have known that rather than ending the discussion, it opened the floodgates.

“Kitchen is through here.” She does a 360° turn. “Bedrooms are upstairs. I’ve taken the en suite, hope you fellas don’t mind. Two of you will have to share.”

Bucky looks over to Steve, one corner of his mouth dips as if to say they’ve had worse.

It’s a kick in the guts to think this Bucky, who’s made up a whole new life for himself, still accepts sharing with Steve as the norm.

Perhaps one man’s imagination does have its limits.

 

 

Two whole weeks pass without any incident. Bucky and Sam bond over yoga, of all things. Bucky stumbles upon Sam folding himself into a pretzel and wants to learn. Now most mornings Steve comes down to the French windows wide open, and Sam’s low murmur correcting Bucky’s posture.

There are obvious gaps in Bucky’s story. For the life of him he can’t tell them who fixed his shoulder. No matter how much Natasha probes. He’ll relay the incident step by step: stairs, loose carpet, fell and landed wrong. Then, nothing. No mention of hospital or doctors or physio.

Steve also has this feeling that Bucky doesn’t realize there’s anything, well, out of the ordinary about his left arm. Steve’s seen him putting his hand too close to the stove, moves away after a beat, then sucks on the metal digit like he’s actually burned.

As much as he talks about his army buddies, he’s never once picked up the phone, or wants to invite them over. He doesn’t get defensive; when the narration doesn’t match up, he just changes the topic.

One night, they are chilling by the pool. Sam goes back home for the weekend. Natasha is called away (“Boy trouble,” she says. Bucky nods in solemn understanding. “I bet.”). Steve’s treading water, Bucky sits by the edge, kicking out ripples. His shorts are an eye-watering jumble of colors and patterns, a gift from Clint when he did come by.

Steve looks up when Bucky stills, head cocked to the side. Bucky has those moments, where he seems to come back from some daydream. A hand on the shoulder or a nudge always seems to anchor him.

He swims closer, bumps his shoulder against Bucky’s ankle.

“How’s…’ Bucky runs his fingers through his hair: still long, but much cleaner. ‘Can’t believe I haven’t asked. How’s Peggy?”

Steve sinks a few inches when he stops dead, which is when he inhales wrong. Bucky yanks him out of the water with a tutting noise.

He thumps Steve’s back as Steve sits there, doubled over and wheezing like he hasn’t done in years, decades.

Peggy, oh God, Peggy.

It’s difficult to stomach the elation in Peggy’s eyes whenever she turns away a fraction, her attention hopping elsewhere before it wanders back. Then it’s like the first time Steve walked through the door all over again. Rinse, repeat.

He calls the nursing home every other day, visits as often as he can. Even though he has to drive around the block a few times before he goes in. Some days she’ll be telling him about her niece, flushed with pride. Some days she sits at the piano and ignores him completely.

“She’s...” Steve presses the heel of his hand into his eye socket. His cheeks are wet from the pool. “She’s fine. She’s doing okay.”

“Good.” Bucky sounds genuinely pleased. His metal arm presses into Steve’s side. “I liked her.”

 

 

Bucky sleeps in bouts, snapping awake every couple hours.

Steve’s been a light sleeper since the serum. Doesn’t need much rest anyway. He keeps his eyes shut and his breathing even until Bucky turns over, exhales, and sinks back into sleep again. Sometimes it takes Bucky half an hour, sometimes he never does. That’s Steve’s cue to get up, pretending to stretch and yawn.

“Pancakes?”

Bucky always says yes. He takes his pancakes drenched in butter and syrup, like they swore they would when rationing ended.

They run out of pancake mix every week, faster if Sam’s here, who must have a homing device to ‘food being made’.

Steve asks if he’s sleeping okay. Sam puts on his zen voice and talks about his own less-than-pleasant dreams. Bucky listens, never says a word.

Natasha watches all three of them, slit-eyed.

 

 

Steve comes down to the usual pitter-patter. Natasha is perched opposite Sam and Bucky on the dining table, phone in hand, trying to take pictures (selfies).

Her mouth is painted a new shade of magenta. She shakes her head when she catches Steve looking. “Not really my color, is it?”

It does clash with her hair, but even Steve’s honesty doesn’t extend that far. He shrugs.

“Hmmm, I don’t think so.” She purses her lips, and takes out the tube of lipstick, turning it this way and that.

Sam and Bucky aren’t really following this conversation at all, their heads bent over bacon and toast.

The nagging feeling that he’s missed something makes Steve hover. Natasha tosses the lipstick up and catches it, does it again.

She finally meets Steve’s eyes, holding his gaze when she says, “Found it in my room. Someone must have left it behind.”

Except he knows Natasha. Every inch of the house must have been swept before they even set foot inside. There’s no way a previous occupier’s possession could have gone unnoticed.

“I’m going into town, anyone want anything?”

They grumble and shake their heads.

 

 

The fifteen-minute wait between Natasha leaving and his phone beeping must be the longest fifteen minutes in history. Steve doesn’t leave the table. He still prefers knocking on the front door but he’s learned a few things too. A whispered conversation invites ears.

‘Hey.’

(‘I’ve scanned the room and the lipstick. No prints.’)

‘…I’m fine, and you?’

(‘Do you understand, Steve?’)

‘Sure.’

(‘He hasn’t planted or taken anything. That I made damn sure of.’)

‘Nah, just enjoying some downtime with my buddies.’

(‘He looked into my wardrobe, though.’)

‘What for?’

Silence stretches between them. Natasha breathes out. ‘Tell Sam to sit tight.’ She clicks off.

Steve’s listens to the dial tone for a full minute before he manages a distracted bye, his face stiff from grinning.

 

 

They sit tight. They keep their ears perked and their eyes open.

The other shoe refuses to drop.

Clint checks up on them on pretense of movie night, stealing Natasha’s popcorn the whole time.

Steve sometimes wonders about Clint and Natasha. There was a circling bet within SHIELD regarding their relationship status. The odds varied from department to department, depending on said department’s proximity to Coulson.

Right now they’re laying it on thick, practically welded to each other’s side. The underlying ease is undeniable though: the way they’re no doubt talking to each other in codes and glances; the affected sprawling grace they both adapt.

Steve never joined in the speculation, much to Stark’s irritation. He knows all too well life has the tendency to complicate even the purest intentions.

 

 

Sam is the one who finds the drawings, scribbled into the corner of the newspaper. He nudges Steve in the elbow and angles the paper towards him.

At first glance they’re childish doodles: a black dot for head and matchstick limbs.

Steve fights the urge to crumple the paper up. Sam searches his face, dark eyes giving away nothing.

Bucky returns from the bathroom then, scratching his belly. Steve isn’t prepared for Sam to cuff him on the head.

“I thought you were a real artist, Rogers.”

Bucky bounds over, never one to pass up a chance to tease. He cranes his neck over Sam’s shoulder. “What’s this?” He pulls the paper up, tilting it. “I hate to break it to you, pal, but that’s not where you stick it.”

He isn’t lying. Steve knows all of Bucky’s tells, and he’s not faking anything.

“So, what’s for supper?” Bucky drops the paper, already lost interest.

 

 

Natasha studies the doodle for a long time.

“The Winter Soldier is the best sniper to have come out of the Red Room. But he’s been known to make messy kills. Especially when intimidation is the secondary goal.” She taps on the table. “Yes, very messy.”

“He’s not,”—Steve swallows—“he’s unaware that he drew it.”

“Clint is talking to someone.” Natasha is wearing her Agent Romanoff face, which means this conversation has ended. “He’ll come back with some answers.”

 

 

The house is getting warm with watchfulness. Steve runs with Bucky on the mornings he isn’t attempting some gravity-defying pose. Someone will always find an excuse to be in the same room as him. It’s a good thing Bucky doesn’t seem to mind, welcomes the company, even. Although he does ask Steve if Sam, you know, swings both ways.

Steve doesn’t choke. He’s survived Tony Stark. “Not that I know.”

‘He checks Nat out.’ Bucky chews on an apple thoughtfully. “And, well, he’s pretty comfortable with physical affection.”

That does make Steve laugh. “I think that’s just how Sam is. Nothing fazes him.”

“He gives me those eyes though…”

Steve thinks, crap, Sam’s smart, but he isn’t exactly covert.

“…like he wants me to unburden my soul or some shit.”

“He does deal with vets a lot, people who are troubled.” There is no better opening than this, Steve soldiers on. “Do you experience anything? You know, dreams, flashbacks?”

Bucky thinks about it. “If I do I don’t remember. Well, except one.”

“Oh?”

“Flying. Dream about flying a lot.” Bucky chews neatly around the apple core, stripping the flesh.

“I step off a train, and I fly.”

 

 

The drawings keep appearing.

Always the same macabre stickmen: stabbing, garroting, sometimes with guns as tall as the childish figures themselves, sometimes one holds another in a parody of embrace. Squiggly circles for where blood pools. Done in ballpoint, in pencil, in toothpaste or shaving foam.

And it’s never drawn on Bucky’s own things—the margins of his dog-eared Dan Brown, the postcards he’s picked up. Once or twice Bucky will be the one to find them, and he’ll give everyone else quizzical looks.

Steve feels crowded in by them, trampled. Even Sam looks troubled. He offers to swap rooms with Steve, who shakes his head.

“He’s fine, he’s…” Steve winces at how thin his voice sounds. ‘It’s him working through things, right?’

 

 

He wakes to find Bucky facing the wall, kneeling on one leg, his hands clasped together beneath his chin.

Steve shifts to sitting. “Buck?”

No response.

Steve approaches on cautious feet. Sam has warned him against touching vets when they’re tense.

Bucky blinks when Steve moves closer. Something about the way he holds himself feels off. Bucky always seems bigger than he actually is: talks louder, laughs longer, flirts harder than anyone else in the room. Steve gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Can’t sleep?”

Bucky glances up, catches Steve’s wrist in both hands and rests his forehead over Steve’s knuckles. His skin feels warm, a little damp, but not too hot.

Steve doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t dare pull away. They stay like that for a while, then Bucky lifts his head, presses a kiss to the base of Steve’s little finger—like a subject would a king, or a pilgrim would the Pope.

Something isn’t right. Something is—

The voice that comes out sounds nothing like Bucky’s. It’s good-natured, with a slight breathlessness as if the speaker is a small, plump man.

“We shall have peace.”

Steve’s hand jerks in the cradle of Bucky’s palms. The other man’s face is smooth and amicable. He isn’t forceful, but he isn’t letting go either.

“We shall destroy every obstacle to the path of freedom.” Not-Bucky tightens his grip, a reassurance, a promise. “Every disobedience must be punished.”

With that, Not-Bucky slumps forward. Part of Steve wants to shake him and start demanding answers. The larger part, the part that remembers being yanked away from fights and shoved towards girls with shy smiles, catches Bucky and props him up.

The whole thing doesn’t last longer than a couple of minutes. Bucky stirs with a muffled, “Whu—“, sits back on his haunches. “What happened?”

He sounds 100% Bucky again, drawling vowels and a sleepy husk. Steve crouches down, hands on either side of Bucky’s head, grasping for basic first aid: check pupils, check for blood, pulse rate.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I was…” Bucky glances around, screwing his eyes shut. “I was asleep, in bed.”

They stare at each other, pinned in place by the yawning absence of explanation.

“Come on.” Steve keeps a hand on Bucky as they stand, which Bucky doesn’t shake off or bitch about, a sure sign he’s just as shaken.

They sit side by side on Bucky’s bed. Steve sees him flexing and extending his fingers, eyeing the distance between the bed and the spot they were at.

“Has that happened before?”

Bucky shakes his head. He doesn’t look at Steve.

“Hey, maybe you were trying to sneak into the kitchen.”

Bucky drags a hand across the bottom half of his face. His shoulders rise and fall but it’s not quite a shrug.

If Steve’s any judge, neither of them gets another wink of sleep that night. In the morning Bucky doesn’t join Sam for yoga, and shakes his head when Steve asks if he wants to come for a run.

 

 

“I’m no shrink, but I’ve heard about sleepwalking,” Sam suggests. “People can have whole conversations without realizing.”

Steve shakes his head. Sleepwalking implies the person is asleep. If he was a superstitious man he’d call what happened last night possession.

“I’ll look things up.” Sam gives him a gentle kick. “Don’t worry your pretty head too much.”

A month ago, hell, a week ago Steve would have teased right back. Now he nods, thankful for Sam’s perpetual good humor.

 

 

Natasha is silent on the phone for so long Steve is worried the line might have dropped.

“I’ll wrap things up as soon as I can,” she says eventually. “Keep me updated.”

“I will.”

“The first sign of aggression, you knock him out. The kit’s in my mattress, pre-loaded. Knock him out and get him to Hill.”

“What—“

“Promise me.” Her voice goes flat and hard.

Steve feels his head dip like it belongs to someone else, then remembers she can’t see him. “I promise.”

He misses the days when the enemy had bad facial hair and was susceptible to bullets.

 

 

Bucky is open about his time as a marine, cracking jokes and comparing notes with Sam. Some of those stories sound achingly familiar, burnished with the shine of nostalgia; some of them plain flights of fancy.

The more he talks, the more obvious it becomes that the underlying emotions are censored. Bucky’s guilt is textbook perfect; his anguish over a lost brother doesn’t match the clearness of his eyes. The only solid thing is the belief that he did what he had to do, and he won’t listen to some weed-smoking, free-loving liberal preach mercy.

Sam gets a pinched look whenever Bucky talks like this. Steve doesn’t want to know what his own face is doing.

 

 

These days Steve can snap awake at a stuttering exhale, a rustle of sheets. If it wasn’t for the serum, he’d be a walking disaster.

Instead of bolting upright like he’s been doing lately, Bucky blinks awake. His head lolls sideways until he spots Steve, who’s already got one foot on the floor.

He blinks again, squinting in the dark. Steve holds his breath.

Bucky starts to sit up. No, that’s too inadequate a verb. He rises from the folds of cotton like he’s being lifted on a wave, bare arms sliding out to clutch at the sheets, pulling them up to his neck.

Steve just **knows** it’s happening again.

The smile sits wrong on his face: sweet, almost demure, but there’s an agility in the curve of his mouth, ready to spring into full delight. Dark fans of lashes dip over his eyes.

First sign of aggression, Steve repeats to himself, first sign.

When Bucky speaks, it comes out a throaty purr, rich with secrets. “Hello.”

Getting no response, Bucky leans forward. His hand walks the distance between them on top of the cover. “Why are you over there? Come.”

Steve holds out both hands. “Bucky, listen, you need to wake up.”

“It’s Tatiana.”

His accent shifts on the name, a little rushed, like how a foreigner is glad for the comfort of his mother tongue.

Bucky stands, wrapping the sheets around himself like the body really is a woman’s. He takes two steps towards Steve, stumbles.

Not even Bucky, the real Bucky, who’s always known exactly what he looked like, moves with such balletic grace. He molds his whole body to Steve’s front, shivering as if he’s feeling a chill.

Steve extracts himself as gently as he can, holds Bucky back. “Come on, bud, work with me here.”

Bucky (Tatiana) gives him a wounded look, lower lip juts out just that bit more.

And Bucky snaps back into the body with a start.

The shift is remarkable, a double illusion of familiarity and strangeness. One face melts back and another surges forward while the features remain exactly the same—the downward tilt of an eye, the slope of a cheek. Bucky looks down on the sheets in his clutch, frowns and lets go.

Steve doesn’t need to ask if he remembers anything.

“Was I trying to make off with the bedding?”

“You were bravely battling the blanket monster.”

There was a time when Steve thought he was a shitty liar: a few crossed-out numbers on paper didn’t count. Now the words trip off his tongue.

 

 

By the time Natasha comes back—multi-tasking as usual—with a working diagnosis and a handful of specialists they should call, Steve has figured out three of the most prominent ones.

There is the Kid. He’s the one who draws, and the only one to make an appearance when Bucky is awake. He doesn’t talk, avoids eye contact at all costs and vanishes when someone strays too close.

Otto is the fanatic. Every other word to come out of his mouth is freedom or truth. Most of the time he talks through rather than at Steve, quoting some bastard child of the Bible and HYDRA. When he’s not doing that, he kneels at Steve’s feet, trembling with rapture, asks for guidance, for absolution.

Tatiana stays the longest when it’s her turn. She speaks no language perfectly; her French has a German accent, her German has a Russian lilt, and her English is full of clipped vowel sounds and false stops.

It’s what makes us exotic, Natasha explains after conversing with her in a wash of musical notes. Exotic and desirable and too dumb for spying, among other things.

She doesn’t say what they talked about.

There are others, Steve is certain of it, although their appearances are all too brief. He grew up with Bucky. He’s seen the guy at his highest and lowest: drunk, beat, sick as a dog, itching for a fight. There are times when Bucky turns his head a certain way, picks up a pen and starts twirling, that lets Steve know he’s looking at someone else.

 

 

Getting Bucky to see a specialist proves to be half the battle.

“I’m fine.” Bucky’s jaw ticks.

Reluctance to seek help, that’s what the doctor said over the phone. Lack of self-awareness, and active avoidance in some cases.

Natasha shares a tentative look with Sam. “Steve’s told us about the— “

“Who said anybody…” the spoon jiggles in Bucky’s grip, “could know about anything?”

The silence rings in their ears. Bucky pushes the cereal away. He doesn’t apologize but he doesn’t storm out either.

“Look, Buck.”

“Don’t Buck me.”

“We’re, we only want what’s best for you.” Sam pipes up.

“They know jack all.” Bucky’s face is going blotchy. “What I’ve seen out there? They’ll shit their pants just imagining it.”

It’s automatic to put a hand on Bucky when he’s cornered and snarling. “I know. But there’s no harm in talking to someone.”

“Don’t see the need, is all.”

“I know you don’t remember.” Steve bites down on his lip. “You almost punched me the other night when I tried to wake you up.”

Immediately Bucky looks pained. “Shit, did I?”

He didn’t. It never gets easier, lying to Bucky. Steve goes in for the kill. ‘I’d hate to be choked out the next time.’

Bucky’s shoulders slump and Steve knows he’s won.

When they’re drying the dishes, Sam stage-whispers, “You’re scary good at manipulation.”

“Cap is learning from the best.” Natasha snorts.

 

 

The first and second session go without a hitch, Bucky even admits some of the things said aren’t all bullshit.

So of course it goes pear-shaped after that.

Bucky comes out of the consultation with sweat beading along his hairline, a muscle twitches in the corner of his eye. He walks straight past Steve without stopping, without any sign that he’s heard Steve when the latter calls out.

He whirls around as Steve catches up, eyes wild. “Can you—” he angles his body away, “—I can’t be with you right now. I don’t…”

Steve can read the _do not approach_ loud and clear. He swallows. “I’ll wait in the car.”

He’s on the phone when Bucky’s back disappears. “Clint—”

“Yeah, I’m on it.” Clint drawls in his ear, “Don’t you worry.”

Steve waits in the car. He waits in the car for a long time. Bucky comes back to the house almost four hours later, having bumped into Natasha, who insists it’s no trouble to give him a lift.

They make conversation with the tense, silent line of Bucky’s profile for the rest of the evening.

 

 

That very night, the Soldier makes his first appearance.

Neither of them falls asleep. After hours of lying stiff as a board, Bucky slides to the floor and starts to do crunches.

He does that for about half an hour, then switches to push-ups, making the floor groan under the rise and fall of his body.

When Bucky begins to do it with just one arm, Steve lets out an involuntary noise. Bucky freezes mid-push. He doesn’t scramble, his limbs fold and extend in one fluid move and land him on his feet.

Steve’s stomach drops. He’s seen that stance before; in the groaning, shuddering belly of a helicarrier. He bolts up, fists curled tight.

Bucky isn’t looking at him, though. Standing so still he doesn’t appear to be breathing, eyes fixed straight ahead.

Steve shuffles close, keeping his hands clearly visible. He jumps when Bucky speaks.

“Activated. Awaiting briefing.”

He doesn’t sound robotic, but there’s no inflection in his tone. Unconcerned with the silence, Bucky holds out his left arm to the side at 90°, fingers spread. It’s the first time Steve’s seen him treating the prosthetic as anything other than his own flesh.

Then it hits him. Bucky is poised for a tune-up; ready to be dusted off and unleashed upon doomed targets.

Bile rising, Steve guides the arm back down. Bucky goes with it. “Awaiting briefing.”

Steve doesn’t do violence, detests it. Up until now he’s never had the visceral desire to hurt, to cut off one head and press sizzling metal to the bloodied stump.

Bucky does it a third time. “Awaiting briefing.”

Steve can’t listen anymore. He reaches blindly forward, folding Bucky close. “God, what did they do to you?”

Except he already knows, knows all the clinical, quantified details: how many watts of current go into the periaqueductal grey to illicit intense fear; the exact frequency of magnetic stimulation to ensure desensitization.

He holds on to Bucky and shakes. Holds on like he should have 70 years ago.

Steve braces himself for a brutal shove when Bucky jerks in his arms. Instead, nimble fingers walk up the side of his ribcage, circling around to dip between his collar bones.

Tatiana!

Steve backs away on unsteady legs, but not fast enough, not before hands flutter over his face, too-bright eyes boring into his. “Don’t.”

Don’t what? Steve doesn’t get a chance to ask. Otto is there the next instant, the caressing touch turns into a bruising grip.

“Do not doubt. It is the devil inside, whispering—”

Otto’s vehement declaration cuts off, his eyes roll up. Bucky drops, the sudden dead weight drags Steve down with him.

 

 

Steve calls the psychiatrist first thing in the morning. It’s a testament to his control that he doesn’t swear, much.

After dancing around the issue of confidentiality, the good doctor confirms that fluctuations are to be expected, they’re part of the recovery process.

So, Steve croaks out, so you’re saying he’s gonna get worse before he gets better?

Essentially, yes.

Steve wishes, for the second time in his life, to be able to get drunk.

 

 

He begs Sam and Natasha to leave the house for the time being. Bucky and the alters are getting jumpy. When he runs in the mornings he exhausts even Steve. He’s also developed an obsession with checking the time every five minutes. Sometimes he’ll start to doodle when his concentration wanes, then snap back a moment later, shred the paper without looking.

The harder he tries to be Bucky during the day, the more violently the alters burst through at night. He’ll be going through personalities, voices, mannerisms like he’s picking out a shirt to woo his date. Until he falls into a comatose sleep, which never lasts more than a few hours.

“I did my homework, Cap.” Sam breathes through his nose. “Integration is the best outcome. The trouble is…”

Steve knows full well what the trouble is, but perhaps it will help to hear it from someone else.

“Trouble is, we don’t know if the puzzle pieces are gonna spell out Bucky Barnes at the end, or the Winter fucking Soldier.”

Yeah, doesn’t help.

 

 

The Kid draws a red, red circle with ketchup, a starburst of lines coming out of one end.

Steve scrapes it off onto his own plate, and puts a fresh batch of fluffy scrambled eggs in front of a crushed-looking Bucky.

 

 

Tatiana is the talker.

She’ll smile and get into Steve’s space and ask for a dance, a cigarette, anything to distract them both.

Eventually she always settles and starts talking, hands folded across her lap.

She calls Steve _General_ , because—

“Only the General knows.” She moistens her lips. “He doesn’t want to, of course. But we all have our duties.”

Tatiana sits up straighter at the word ‘duty’. “Sometimes he hits me because he’s disgusted. And that’s duty, too.”

“Where’s your List, General?” Her chest begins to heave. “It’s the Law. Without the List you’re deaf and I’m mute.”

Steve digs his nails into his palm and forces himself to stay still.

“But it’s okay.” She claps her hands in front of her, beaming. “I remember the List. The List says what’s your name? I say my name is Tatiana. Sometimes I get that wrong, the General is kind, the General won’t tell—”

She breaks off on a gasp, bites down on her knuckle, scandalized, terrified.

A talking Tatiana is better than the alternative. Steve’s watched her dabbing on lipstick in the mirror. Natasha’s right, the shade doesn’t suit her, but against Tatiana’s darker coloring it’s perfect.

Steve has to be careful not to let her out of sight, no matter how much he wants to stay away from this stranger wearing his best friend’s face. Because Bucky is the one who blinks awake between one breath and the next, and puts his metal fist through the glass.

Tatiana likes dancing. It seems to calm her. So they twirl and shuffle to some nonexistent music, ending up with more than a few trampled toes. Tatiana’s cheek pressed to his, whispering about Tsaristsas and carriages drawn by black horses that will take her far, far away.

“Like Jimmy.”

The swaying rhythm of their movement lulls Steve. The words sink in sluggishly.

“Who’s Jimmy?” He pitches his voice low to match hers.

“Gone.” Tatiana smiles up to him.

 

 

They take turns to sit with him when Bucky’s in the doctor’s office. Sam brings donuts and Natasha doesn’t do sentimentality but she listens. Clint gets boot prints all over his sunroof.

Sam has a knack for sensing when he’s moping too much. That’s when Steve gets a punch to the arm. He takes Steve to meet his friend’s parents, the ones he brought their son’s dog tags back to. Steve’s never had to do that, Bucky’s folks were long gone then.

Sitting in their brightly lit living room, flipping through the photos of a boy with gap teeth and freckles, it dislodges something in his chest. There’s no bitterness in their welcome, no artificial warmth. Mrs Whittle hugs Sam for long moments when they leave, her curly head barely comes up to his chest. Sam hugs her back just as tight.

“You’ll always feel like you could have done more. That never goes away,” Sam says on the way back, glancing at Steve from the corner of his eye. “But it eases.”

Steve doesn’t know what he’s done, in this life or the previous, to deserve such support.

 

 

Bucky slips into the passenger seat, looking even paler than usual. His voice barely carries when he asks if they could go somewhere.

So Steve drives around the city aimlessly with the windows rolled down. Bucky sits ramrod straight, right hand gripping his left thumb, pushing it to the point it would have snapped on anyone else.

When Bucky gets out of the car at the gas station, he keeps his back turned.

“Did I go to Iraq?”

Steve’s pretty sure he’s used up his lifetime quota on lies. “No.”

Bucky shoves his hands deep into his pockets.

 

 

He wakes Steve with a shout. Eyes unnervingly wide as he stares across the space between their beds, hair sticking to his forehead.

“But I knew you, right? That’s not—”

Steve’s off the bed in an instant, a sob caught in his throat. “Yeah, Buck. We’ve always known each other.”

Bucky starts to weep without changing his expression at all. It’s only when Steve pulls back that he sees the wet sheen of the other’s cheeks.

 

 

The only demand the Soldier makes is for missions. He’s otherwise content to stay at the same spot, in parade rest, until Bucky takes over.

Steve suspects it’s the mind’s way of giving itself some reprieve. Amidst the chaotic mix of separate histories and characters, the Soldier is some much needed simplicity. He carries no ego, no judgment, no loyalties. He’s a knife sharpened to a point, happy to lie in whoever’s grasp. One time Steve asks if he has a name, the Soldier spits out the word ‘asset’ and falls silent again.

 

 

Bucky has good days, though they’re getting few and far between. He’s a subdued version of the one who appeared on Steve’s doorstep. Moves with a tall man’s stoop, laughs uneasily, but it’s still a laugh. Steve sends out group texts on those days, and the ones not chasing down HYDRA or running a million-dollar corporation turn up.

Bruce comes bearing an actual fruit basket, and a bottle of wine obviously picked on Pepper’s recommendation. Steve looks at the label and lifts an eyebrow. Bruce rubs his hands together.

“Yeah, I know, I just parroted the name to the shop assistant.”

Bruce’s never come face to face with The Winter Soldier, which might explain his ease around Bucky. But then, he probably understands better than anyone the importance of seeing the man, not the monster.

It’s impossible not to warm up to Bruce, Bucky is no exception. He seems fascinated by Bruce’s traveling, asks about Kolkata, Tibet, Kuangukuangu. Bruce sketches out maps for him, circles the most isolated spots. Says with a wry smile Bucky might find signs of rampage if he goes there.

“Does it help?” Bucky studies the lines and arrows. There’s a dip in his cheek where he’s biting down on the inside.

“Sometimes.” Bruce muses. “Other times I find the presence of civilization strangely calming.”

Bucky taps his temple. “Too much space to think, huh?” Bruce nods, his hand hovers between them for a second before he grips his own knee.

“It’s even better when I don’t speak their language. Words tend to get in the way.”

“Well, I’ll need to make a raft first.” Bucky knocks on his arm, mouth twitching at the clinking noise. “Can’t get through airports like this.”

Sam and Steve freeze at the same time, staring at each other across the breakfast bar.

With Natasha’s help, Steve is now officially the primary carer for Bucky, which allows the doctors to give him some more information.

By definition, Bucky isn’t presenting with true dissociative identity disorder. What he has is more along the lines of extreme compartmentalization, and a large dose of false memory syndrome. Prognosis depends on the extent to which he could absorb the memories.

Sometimes Steve lies awake and thinks perhaps they’ve got it all wrong. Who says Bucky’s not better off co-existing with his alters? Who says there’s any good in remembering what he desperately wants to forget?

Then he sees Peggy, illuminated by a lone, swinging bulb. _Did you believe in your friend? Did you respect him?_ There’s also Natasha, looking at him dead in the eye: the best thing I did for Clint was to trust him to come out the other side.

Sam will no doubt tell him to quit talking to voices in his head. _Man, dunno which one’s the worse trauma case, you or Barnes._

 

 

Otto surfaces less and less these days. When he does, the prayers come out jumbled, hardly making any sense. His mouth moves furiously with no sound. The words scratch his throat raw.

“How do I function without Faith, without Order?”

Steve grips both of his hands. “You live, you go on.”

Otto’s gaze sweeps the ceiling, comes to a stop on the exposed beams. Steve takes him by the shoulders, shakes him.

“No. That’s not, that’s really not an option.”

Otto’s head hangs over his chest like his neck can’t support the weight.

Steve throws out half the kitchen utensils in the morning, just in case. He knows it’s futile. It’s Bucky, he can probably do it by sheer force of will.

 

 

Tatiana doesn’t want to dance anymore. She curls up next to him on the bed. Her words tumble over each other as if she thinks time is running out.

The conversations always start the same. “My name is Tatiana. Secrecy is a sin.”

Steve never finds out which General she’s referring to, Karpov or Lukin. It’s probably for the best.

Beyond that, she doesn’t mention any names or dates. The information is ultra-sensitive, Tatiana puts a finger to her parched lips. Tatiana must keep her mouth ultra-shut.

The General had an elastic-bound notebook first, to record her answers as he went through the List, then he switched to a typewriter.

“It makes a little ping sound.” Tatiana taps on his cheek. “Ping, ping, ping, like birds falling from the sky.”

If Steve’s arms around her become crushing rather than comforting, she doesn’t mention it.

Natasha tries to warn him about Tatiana, without actually saying anything. It’s an art, learned from years of tradecraft. No Red Room agent serves solely as a weapon, she says. Sometimes, a certain skillset is required. Sometimes even the Black Widow lacks the said skillset.

“Due to physical limitations.”

Tatiana, on the other hand, isn’t stingy with details. The General’s report needs more than the steps leading a result. The General demands a level of emotional transparency.

“The General needs to know if Tatiana enjoys it, if the names he gave me touch Tatiana more than necessary. Tatiana says no, always no.” She starts to tremble for real, fingers gripping the front of Steve’s tank top. “Otherwise she’ll fall asleep.”

Occasionally Steve has to get some air before he can continue those one-sided conversations, his mouth sour with the taste of failure.

 

 

As far as Steve knows, Bucky isn’t queer (gay).

Where they lived, the back alleys held more than memories of scuffles. There were sheltered spots you didn’t go to unless you had certain inclinations. On some nights, it was better to give the Navy Yard a miss.

Although Bucky never joined in the jeer at a successful raid. He did almost punch a sailor for looking at him wrong. There was also the parade of girls on his arm.

In conclusion, Bucky isn’t gay, and Steve isn’t just thinking that out of ignorance.

Most of Tatiana’s missions weren’t wetworks. Sometimes they were pre-arranged transactions; there were always men in high places whose tastes ran in that direction. Sometimes they were straightforward burning*: a hidden camera, a well-timed intervention, and an officer got turned** or discredited.

Tatiana talks about her targets as if they were a collective entity, with greedy hands and twitchy eyes.

Except, there was a cultural attaché, American. Had hands too big for his frame and a sharp tongue. Tatiana trailed him from gallery openings to the opera. He laughed with his whole body.

That’s where the story inevitably ends. Tatiana always seems to get distracted then, humming a jaunty tune to herself.

 

 

Steve finds the cultural attaché in the files. Disappearance, suspected defection. There was evidence to suggest he was Moscow Center*** all along.

 

 

Once the alters start to take over multiple times during the day, Bucky becomes almost mute. So Steve talks, fills the silence with whatever comes to mind: their first meeting, which involved pouring rain and a bunch of middle schoolers, guest-starring Steve and a large puddle; Bucky’s favorite color (blue); those pink knee patches on Bucky’s pants, thanks to Steve’s mom; the first time Steve showed him the sketches (‘You’re something else, Rogers’).

He knows when Bucky started to smoke, even though he never did it in front of Steve. Bucky’s first gal, Bettie with an e. How he had a feeling Bucky stole those nice pencils for Steve’s birthday, but couldn’t bring himself to ask, not when Bucky looked all proud and scared. He put them back though, just as scared that Bucky would walk into the same shop and realize what Steve did. The Howling Commandos might have been heroic, but they were worse than a bunch of gossiping wives. Bucky told such tales by the camp fire, they all covered their ears. Boiling their socks to get rid of the lice—

“To be fair, I don’t know how the Nazis didn’t catch us just by following their noses.”

Once or twice something will come back to Bucky: cotton candy he bought for them on Coney Island, and finished all by himself; the torn-out print of a pin-up girl he hid in his shoes; nightmares of being chased by carrots—tanks he could handle, but those shriveled-up devils? Hell no.

He seems to like the stories of their disastrous double dates the best; one corner of his mouth tugs up in a pale smirk. Steve tells his skinny self to swallow his pride and take one for the team.

 

 

Natasha seems to be Bucky’s favorite. Steve doesn’t think it’s because a pretty face is Bucky’s biggest vice. The alters seem to settle round her, too. Even the Kid will let her sit next to him as he draws. Tatiana talks to her as if they’re long-lost friends, all hand gestures and ringing laughs.

It’s no wonder that Natasha gets to Bucky-sit while Steve goes to visit Peggy.

She’s better today, sitting with a blanket in her lap. Her roses are doing beautifully. She smiles, clear-eyed, when Steve kisses her wrinkled forehead.

Peggy shows him her new cardigan with pearl buttons, and a set of elegant reading glasses. Steve follows the conversation best as he can, beams when he fails to hear a question. Her eyes dart between his jaw, where he nicked himself on the razor, and his chewed fingernails.

“What is it?”

He hasn’t told her about Bucky, doesn’t plan to. Peggy’s earned her peace. So he mumbles out something about an old friend who just came back. Steve’s helping him through some issues. Although lately he feels he’s doing it more for his own sake than his friend’s.

Peggy steeples her fingers. “Do you know why I stayed, after the war?”

Steve shakes his head.

“MI6 offered me a job—Chief Analyst.” She chuckles. “Even with my war record, I wouldn’t be stepping into the Lord’s Pavilion, or having a nightcap at the White’s club. It didn’t help that the battle had gone underground. They only wanted women in darkrooms, spy-spotting from archive footage. Or worse, playing the honey trap.

“So I stayed. Captain Philips vouched for my competence. It was entirely selfish. I wager I caused quite an uproar, a woman with an appetite for glory, god forbid.”

“I did well, recent development notwithstanding.” She gives Steve an unimpressed look. “Oh don’t front, it’s all over the news. I’m not that far gone yet.”

There’s surprising strength in her arthritic fingers as she takes Steve’s hand. “Being selfish and being good aren’t mutually exclusive. I will say one thing, though.”

God Steve has missed that twinkle in her eyes. “Shoot.”

“Never trust a man who doesn’t smoke or swear.”

“He does both.” Steve remembers that time Bucky cussed Sam out in Farsi, leaving the latter shrieking and spluttering. Steve gets the impression Sam’s lineage on both sides has been thoroughly debauched.

“Then all is not lost.”

In that moment she’s Agent Carter again, putting her best face forward to conquer the world.

 

 

Steve isn’t prepared for Natasha and Clint to show up in full combat gear. He opens his mouth but Natasha’s already shoving past him. Clint gives him a reassuring pat. “Relax, we have a plan.”

Apparently the plan is to throw a knife at Bucky’s head, who dodges just in time.

“What the fuck, Nat?”

Bucky doesn’t get to finish. Natasha’s already somersaulting over the couch he’s hiding behind. Steve manages an incredulous _hey_ , which Clint talks over. “We know what we’re doing.”

“What **are** you doing?”

Natasha swipes Bucky’s legs out from under him, lands a kick in his ribs before Buck rolls away with a pained groan. Steve starts to struggle against Clint for real.

“She’s killing him!”

“Nah.” Clint rolls his eyes. “He wouldn't know what hit him if Nat was taking him out.”

A few more pieces of furniture get overturned. Bucky’s on the defense, blocking and dodging while yelling out questions. Natasha leaps into the air, loops her legs around Bucky’s neck and drops him.

She might not be aiming to maim, but she’s not dialing down much either. Soon Bucky’s wincing when he puts weight on his right leg.

“Come on, fight me for real!” Natasha sing-songs between slicing and jabbing, brings the side of her hand down in a vicious chop. Steve opens his mouth, meaning to shout out a warning.

He sees the split second when it happens as if it’s in slow-motion—Bucky’s back hunches and his face wipes clean—The Soldier takes the wheel. He ducks under Natasha’s arm and kicks, very nearly takes out both of her kneecaps.

Steve’s “Bucky!” gets drowned out by Clint’s “Nat!”

She grabs the Soldier’s shoulder, using the momentum to swing herself up and over, elbow locked around his neck, and pulls. The Soldier goes with it, crumples to the floor and slides out of the hold. His left hand comes down just as Natasha flips the knife in her boot. The clunk of metal grates like nails on a chalkboard.

Her other fist is up, angling for the diaphragm. Steve sees the glint of a knuckle duster. It seems sparring with gods and supersoldiers has made her forget how to fight breakable humans.

The Soldier bends backward at the waist, a move that would make any gymnast proud. The clawed points glance off his torso.

Perhaps Steve should tell Sam to cool off the yoga sessions.

He grabs Natasha’s arm and yanks her off balance. His metal fist flies towards her temple. She’s already sinking, slipping through the gap between his legs and wrestling free.

They are on equal footing. Natasha has the advantage of being quicker, more flexible. The Soldier packs a mean right hook. The left one, well, short of a drill, Natasha’s arsenal of shivs and spring-blades aren’t penetrating that side.

It’s terrifying to see what the Soldier can do, despite the injuries Bucky’s picked up earlier. He takes risks no man would take. He lets Natasha dislocate an elbow just to land a kick in her stomach, sending her crashing into the wall.

Beside him, Clint lunges. But Natasha’s already catching herself.

The Soldier pauses.

Steve can’t work out what’s happening. His eyes skitter between them. He sees the Soldier’s eyes widen, confusion setting in, before his legs give out.

Natasha’s breathing heavily, arm across her middle. Steve takes a few steps forward.

“You okay?”

“I’ll live.” She slides gracefully back down. “That should give us about 6 hours.”

Clint strides over to where the Soldier lies crumpled, plucks a fine needle from his neck.

“Six hours? What? Why?” Someone better start explaining before steam starts to come out of his ears.

“Well, I do need some food and rest.” She sucks a breath through her teeth. “And the occasional shower.” Clint is next to them in an instant, helping Natasha up.

“I meant why are you beating my friend to a pulp!”

“How do you stand a weapon down?” Clint cuts in.

Steve hopes his face conveys enough _enlighten me_.

“You don’t. You break it, you wear it out.”

“So that’s the plan.” Steve feels his hackles rise. “What if it doesn’t work?”

“It’s a hypothesis,” Natasha says sagely. “Got him to interact with me, didn’t I?”

Steve has tried talking, shouting until his voice was gone. This is the most reaction he’s seen from the Soldier.

He concedes the point.

Clint takes the next shift, and comes out grinning through a mouthful of blood, his right eye already swelling shut. Steve offers to swap with Natasha. She waves it off.

“No offence. I’ve seen the video feed. There’s no Bucky in there to go soft on you this time.”

 

 

Tatiana sits primly at the table, hands linked in front of her. Her eyes downcast.

“They took Jimmy away.”

Aside from her operations, Jimmy is the one recurring topic in their conversations. Never more than a passing mention, though. Steve wonders if he’s a fellow agent, a friend.

“I’m sorry.”

“They took him away because he was wicked.” Her hands start to shake, so she pinches the skin on her wrist. Steve reaches out and gently pries the fingers away.

“Was he?”

There is a luminosity to her, like the wet shine of a man’s face at gunpoint. “He did not know. But Father did. Father looked into his heart and saw.”

“Saw what?”

She shakes her head, her body sways from side to side.

Steve moves to crouch down next to her. ‘Tatiana.’

“Father scraped and scraped. The wickedness was too deep, so they took him away.”

“To where? Prison?” Steve keeps his voice light.

“Took Jimmy away so Tatiana is here.”

Steve’s hands go numb. His head an echo chamber: Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, of course.

“Tatiana.” Steve rises up, takes her face in both hands. “Jimmy isn’t wicked. Jimmy is…”

His words dry up. Bucky always seems bigger whenever he tries to draw him, dwarfs any description Steve can think of.

“He’s good. He’s the best man I ever knew.”

Tatiana turns her head, brushes a kiss over his palm. Not a kiss of reverie like Otto’s. Not the kisses of seduction she’s been taught.

Steve’s hands drop away and she’s gone. Bucky sits at the table, face so blank he might as well not have a face at all.

 

 

The third time Natasha pins the Soldier to the floor—a foot to the pressure point of the flesh-and-blood arm, the other one taken care of with an EMP charge—the Soldier stays down. He doesn’t seem concerned with the wire around his neck.

“I was the best.” The words are said without disappointment or rage.

Natasha leans forward. The bright fall of her hair obscures her features. “Not anymore.”

The Soldier closes his eyes and goes limp.

 

 

The Kid is the last to leave.

Bucky disappears for two whole days.

Two days of the Kid filling every blank space with disemboweled stickmen. The ink stains his clothes, his face, settling into the creases. His hand grips the pen so hard black bruises bloom under his thumbnail.

Steve tries to get him to eat, to sleep. Holds him still and pours water down his throat. The Kid barely reacts.

On the third day, he lets out a piercing scream, the first and only sound he’s uttered, and collapses into Steve’s exhausted arms.

They sleep curled up on the floor for 14 hours straight.

 

 

It’s Bucky who wakes him up. The shadows beneath his eyes have gone paler but are still there.

For a split second Steve imagines the glint of a knife. But it’s only Bucky’s arm, hanging limply by his side. He sees Steve looking and the metal hand twitches, burrows out of view.

“Listen.” Bucky’s voice is a broken rasp.

“Listen. I know you did a lot for me, Steve.” He squares his shoulders. Steve can feel the warmth of his body, but the distance between them could be the Grand Canyon. “I need to, I gotta go.”

_But I just got you back._ Steve can’t say. That’s selfish. That’s wanting Bucky for **him**. It must show on his face though, because Bucky shakes his head.

“Not permanently. Just, for a while.”

How long a while?

Bucky doesn’t smile. His eyes thaw, a little. “Will you trust me?”

Bucky’s a good man, but he asks the dumbest questions.

 

 

James Buchanan Barnes leaves on a Tuesday.

Tuesday is the day Steve Rogers steps onto the soapbox, hands clammy. There are only a handful of attendants in the room, men and women with hard eyes.

“My name is Steve Rogers.” He glances over at Sam in the corner, nodding, encouraging.

“And I’m recovering.”

**Author's Note:**

> I might just be stating the obvious here, so bear with me:  
> *burning: blackmail  
> **turn: to coerce an enemy spy into becoming a double agent  
> ***Moscow Center: KGB  
> One day I'll stop pinching espionage jargons from Le Carre, I promise.  
> Lord's pavilion and the White's club are both exclusive venues for upper-class men, who did take up most, if not all of the senior positions in MI6.
> 
> Many thanks to my team of betas: marsdragon, emmaholtrust, bridgitb. They whipped my grammar into shape and spotted inconsistencies, as well as Ameri-picking it to hell and back. Any remaining mistakes are mine, do point them out if you come across any.  
> I've always wanted to use multiple personality disorder as a plot device, but never got the chance. So thank you, MCU? Have to admit I've only seen the films, so any additional details are from wikipedia.  
> [Tumblr me folks](http://rosengris.tumblr.com/)


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